


All Those Times

by xtwilightzx (blackidyll)



Series: Between the Lines [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Human Names, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 09:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3723910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/xtwilightzx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Alfred tries to get Arthur to stay just one day longer, and one time he succeeds. </p><p>(Alfred's tactics haven't improved much since he was a youngster: one who tried to pack himself into Arthur's trunk when it came time for Arthur to sail back to England.</p><p>Arthur is just as oblivious now as he was back then).</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Those Times

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written to the Today theme for the [usxuk](http://usxuk.livejournal.com) LJ community's short story collection a couple of years back. I'm posting it now because I realized I didn't post it anywhere after submitting.
> 
> Tooth-rotting fluff ahead.

It hovers on the tip of his tongue, at times.

(Well, almost every time Arthur has to leave Alfred to return to London).

Arthur is not in the habit of unintentionally betraying his emotions. He has used aristocracy as a shield for years, has cloaked himself in the covert languages of poetry and flowers, amongst many others. He knows how to keep secrets, the magic of his land sealed behind his lips.

So why does he constantly feel the urge to whisper into Alfred’s ear – “Tell me not to leave, ask me to stay just another day longer, and I will, whenever I can” – before pulling Alfred close, skin to skin, and never letting go?

 _Be happy with what you have_ , he tells himself, and he is – he’s happy, almost sappily so, and it’s Alfred who makes him feel that way. He loves what they have and it seems almost greedy to want more so quickly, and he doesn’t want to presume, doesn’t want to push too far, too fast.

So Arthur tucks the wanting behind his smiles and lets only a hint of possessiveness peek through when he kisses Alfred (because he _is_ possessive, horribly so, and he can only hide it for so long) because they have time now – years and years ahead of them, to bicker, to push and to love, freely and openly.

\----

Arthur blinks his eyes open to darkness.

He lies still for a long moment, letting his sleepy thoughts meander their way to coherency. He's warm, almost too warm, pinned down by a heavy but comforting weight that is definitely Alfred, arm wrapped around his waist, one leg thrown over Arthur's. He has no idea what time it is because the blackout curtains Alfred's so fond of throw off his points of reference, and his internal clock is tuned to London and he’s feeling too relaxed to work out the difference.

He fumbles blindly for his phone on the bedside table, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the glare from the screen, and then he’s jerking upright in shock.

At least, he attempts to jerk upright. Alfred – still wrapped around him – combined with the softness of the mattress work against him and Arthur collapses back down, Alfred’s weight knocking the breath out of him.

He stares up at the shadowy ceiling, trying to catch his breath. How did they manage to sleep past two alarms? Arthur knows he, at least, had set the alarm on his phone, and it makes no sense that he hadn’t heard it ringing. It doesn’t matter; he needs to get up now or even the diplomatic channel won’t get him through security in time to catch his plane.

He rubs his hands up and down Alfred’s arm, trying to coax Alfred from sleep; the movement simply makes Alfred tuck his head closer against Arthur’s neck, breath feathering across Arthur’s collarbone. Arthur is half-tempted to give in, but duty dashes the thought away, and he tries to slide out of Alfred’s hold. This time, Alfred tightens his arms and legs around him, pulling Arthur further into their cocoon of sheets and blankets, pinning him down.

“Alfred, you had better be asleep.” Arthur’s voice comes out with a slight wheeze.

No response.

So Arthur bites him. And if it’s over the bruise that he had put on Alfred’s shoulder last night – well, that’ll wake Alfred faster, won’t it?

\----

“If I miss my flight because you got me arrested, I’m going to be very cross.”

Arthur’s voice comes out even. He doesn’t know how Alfred’s managed it this time, to be pulled over by his own officers. They’re very polite, saying that they’ve gotten a call to take in the people driving in the vehicle with Alfred’s number plate, and please, their cooperation would be much appreciated.

Arthur is a gentleman. He’s not going to fight with another nation’s law enforcement, and although the familiar irritation itches under his skin, Arthur doesn’t want to raise a fuss, not right now. So he simply curls his hands into loose fists, bottling up his exasperation and the urge to scold, and trusts the situation to Alfred.

“Don’t sweat it, Arthur! I’ve got this covered.” Alfred’s laughter comes out cheery and boisterous, but there’s the slightest hint of tension underlying it, nervousness in the quick glance he shoots at Arthur. He’s already fiddling with his phone, typing out a text at impossible speeds as the officers murmur amongst themselves, consulting their walkie-talkies and looking faintly puzzled.

Arthur sighs and settles back against his seat. He’s dressed for travel, smart but casual – dark shirt, comfortable black trousers, coat folded on his lap. This is not exactly how he wants to spend the last hour or so he has with Alfred, but to be honest, they hadn’t been talking or touching much, not with Alfred concentrating on the road and Arthur staring out the window, trying hard not to think of the journey ahead.

Alfred has the phone pressed to his ear now, chewing absentmindedly on one lip, and Arthur uses the moment of distraction to sneak his hand over the gear stick and clutch to curl his fingers into Alfred’s free hand. Alfred clasps back automatically, not seeming to notice that he’s done so, and Arthur turns back to stare out the window, hiding his small smile.

He’s going to be late for his flight, but it’s nice, this stolen moment.

\----

There’s a door, and it’s jammed shut, and Alfred’s phone, every time Arthur tries to put a call through, is engaged.

There is no other way into the room (Alfred’s bedroom), and no amount of knob-twisting seems to jingle the door open (Arthur would pick the lock but Alfred’s gone for ultra-modern sleekness for this apartment, and that means a fancy lock with _no actual keyholes_ ), and all Arthur has is a text from Alfred saying he’s popped out for… something (Alfred has yet to reach the critical mass of texts when his shorthand chat speak edges towards legible English).

Arthur blows out a breath, takes a moment to consider, then dials again.

“Arthur,” Matthew says when the line connects, sounding curious. “What’s up?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. Not who Alfred was on the phone with, then. “Matthew. I don’t suppose you know how to contact your brother when you can’t get through to his phone?”

“Other than texting? I don’t know, I could try a few things. I thought you were at his place, though, you could just wait for him to get back.”

“One of Alfred’s doors is jammed and my briefcase and laptop are behind it. And I still have some packing left to do.”

“Oh, for—” and then Matthew says something far too low for Arthur to catch. “Yeah, okay, I’ll try to get him.”

The bedroom door is solid but not reinforced with metal. Arthur eyes it, gauging the distance, the height of the door knob; the lock should be easy enough to replace. “I suppose I could kick the door down.”

He’s very good at it, having kicked down a number of doors to captains’ quarters with the ship rolling under his feet and the chaos of fighting around him. A single, innocuous door grounded on land is easy.

There’s a rustle of sound and then Matthew’s voice comes through at a distance, like he’s wedged his phone between ear and shoulder. “Um. Hold up a minute, okay? I’m sure it’s very weird that the door’s locked itself – or jammed – or whatever, but it’s hardly the weirdest thing that’s happened in Al’s houses, right?”

“Perhaps.” Arthur glances down at his watch. “It’s fortunate that I have the weekend, if I miss my plane. Although I have a private engagement with the royal family tomorrow night.”

“So this ‘almost missing your flight’ thing only happens when you have a few days to spare, eh? Convenient, that.”

Arthur tries the knob again, but no, the door still won’t budge. “Well, I always have the option of kicking the door down if Alfred isn’t back in a half hour.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back before then.” Matthew sounds oddly ominous for an instant before his voice goes light again and somewhat exasperated now. “Alfred wouldn’t let you leave without some minimum amount of fuss, after all.”

“Indeed.”

\-----

It’s a languid day; they’re seated on opposite sides of the coffee table watching the news, their tangled feet the only point of contact between them, and it would be a normal day if it wasn’t another flight day. But Alfred’s been sneaking looks at his phone whenever he thinks Arthur isn’t looking and avoiding his gaze when Arthur actually is, which in turn is driving Arthur to distraction.

He finally slaps his hand atop the phone, blocking Alfred’s view. “Alfred, really—”

Arthur cuts himself off, because Alfred finally looks up, and he looks terrible, eyes wide and pupils dilated, the hand gripping the phone trembling ever so slightly. “Good grief, Alfred, what’s wrong?”

It’s a measure of how spooked Alfred is that Arthur is able to pry the phone away with barely any resistance. He only has to glance down at the screen to figure it out.

“Ghost films?”

“It was tempting me!” Alfred exclaims, and his eyes skip between Arthur and his phone, his shoulders now hunching protectively forward. “I had to click on the link and once I started watching it said that if I didn’t watch the whole thing that it’d curse me!”

He’s seen this kind of blind terror – he’s lived through plenty of dark times – but Arthur will never get used to seeing it on Alfred, who has the insane tendency to grin manically in situations which would have others going white with fear.

Arthur exits out of the movie player and sets the phone down. “I’m flying back tonight,” he says, feeling somewhat distressed himself, “and you’re frightened almost out of your mind.”

“I’m not scared!” Alfred insists, although the way he’s clutching the table belies his words. Arthur has a feeling that if he were within grab radius, without the coffee table between them, Alfred would no doubt be clutching _him._

Arthur could stay. He has an extra day filed in to get over the jetlag, but Alfred’s not-quite looking at him in the way that says that Alfred’s scared or tired or hiding something terribly important but steadfastly doesn’t want to admit or share it, and Arthur has learned to grant others their fronts, self-denials their own form of protection. A little pride left intact goes a long way.

He sighs and reaches over to card his fingers through Alfred’s hair, rougher than a caress but gentle nonetheless. “I don’t like leaving you alone when you’re like this,” Arthur says, and Alfred pushes his head up against Arthur’s hand even as he makes a sound of protest – _not scared!_ – at the back of his throat.

Arthur considers again if he should offer to stay. “Will you be all right?”

Alfred glances up, startled, possibly because Arthur’s voice is tight and a little anxious, obvious even to his own ears. Arthur immediately schools whatever expression is on his face and strokes lightly at Alfred’s hair.

There’s a long pause, and then Alfred says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

Arthur doesn’t quite believe him, but Alfred’s starting to calm – or forcing himself to calm, Arthur can’t quite tell which – and some things are best left alone. He still pulls Alfred away from the coffee table and settles on the couch, tucking Alfred to his side and turning up the sound on the television until he has to go.

\-----

Arthur sits in the middle of the bed, his suitcase flung open on the floor. He isn’t entirely sure how every single article of clothing he had brought with him had managed to find their way across almost every inch of the bedroom, but the evidence is right there: his suit jacket and waistcoat flung over the little settee in the corner, his vests and Oxford shirts strewn across the floor, a sock peeking out from under the closet – is that his tie, draped over the lamp’s shade? Arthur squints and concludes that yes, it most certainly is, because Alfred never did grasp the stark simplicity of solid colors when it came to accessorizing his wardrobe.

Arthur resists the urge to pull the sheets over his head. Instead, he leans over the side of the bed and rescues his dressing gown from the floor (why did he even bring it? He only ever wears it in the privacy of his own home, away from prying eyes, when he wants to unwind). He pulls the material over his pyjamas and begins slowly folding his shirts, smoothing out the creases absentmindedly.

It’s the heady scent of coffee that makes him look up. Alfred is leaning against the doorframe, sipping from a travel mug and watching him. He looks rumpled, hair sticking out every which way, like he had stumbled out of bed and aimed straight for the coffee machine, no ifs, buts or detours.

Arthur looks back at him, hands stilling on his clothes. It had been dismaying to wake up and discover the empty space in bed where Alfred isn’t. Arthur wants to turn away because it’s silly and sentimental; Alfred had only been gone a few minutes, and even if he had been there when Arthur opened his eyes – well, then what? He would still have both packing and a harrowing flight in the afternoon to look forward to.

So he keeps his head up, his gaze steady and doesn’t say all the things that are slowly but surely filling up the spaces of his heart. And then – because it’s terribly easy to do so around Alfred – Arthur smiles.

It’s only because he’s looking at Alfred that Arthur sees the expression at all; it flickers by so quickly that Arthur can’t identify it. Alfred leans down to set his mug on the floor, then winds his way past Arthur’s clothes and suitcase to the bed.

“Hi,” Alfred whispers and clambers carefully over the tangled bedclothes to tuck himself against Arthur’s back, slipping his arms around Arthur’s waist and holding on, hands settling comfortably in a light grip over Arthur’s ribs. Alfred’s chin digs into his shoulder, and the soft exhalation whispers against the sliver of exposed skin above the collar of Arthur’s dressing gown.

It makes Arthur’s heart do strange things in his chest. It’s not beating quite right; it’s wondrously steady for all that his breath is going fluttery, nervous and anticipatory, the words pushing up from his heart and lying poised on the tip of his tongue. He swallows. It would be easy to tilt his head, to brush a kiss into Alfred’s hair and let the moment envelope them until Arthur has to move, but—

Arthur licks his lips, lifting his head and fixing his gaze on a point across the room – the window with the blackout curtains drawn apart, and the early morning light filtering through the leaves of the dogwood tree beyond.

“All those times,” he says, and has to clear his throat, begin again. “All those times, when I almost missed my flight because the alarm didn’t go off or the door was jammed, or when we were almost arrested or that one instance when you were scared – all those times, part of me wishes that they had stopped me from leaving.”

It surprises Arthur when he feels warm fingers under his; he’s moved unconsciously, folding his hands over Alfred’s, where they’re tucked against his side. His voice goes low, so soft he’s almost speaking to himself. “I wish I could have stayed with you just a little while longer.”

The moment stretches out but it’s hardly silent, the sentiments spoken aloud falling between them and growing and growing until the entire room feels like it’s ringing with the weight of Arthur’s words.

And then there’s Alfred, who is squeezing him progressively tighter until Arthur shoves an elbow into his side as a reminder, and then Alfred’s spinning him around, their jostling knocking the neat stacks of shirts off the bed.

“Arthur,” Alfred starts, and then, “that was—” and then he’s pouting, looking absurdly young under those glasses before he’s reaching out, fingers sliding along Arthur’s cheeks and down to cradle his head, his thumbs settling against Arthur’s throat, pressed up against his pulse point. “I’ve only been trying to get you to stay longer for _forever_.” And because Alfred doesn’t shut up once he gets started, he rolls right on. “I _always_ want you around, geez, get a clue!”

“What?” Arthur stares at him in surprise before his eyes narrow. “You never said anything, and when did you ever—”

“Only every time you could afford another couple days off! Who schedules your flights anyway? There are way better routes than the ones you choose half the time.”

Arthur doesn’t respond because Alfred’s always had that stubborn look of petulance and defiance, even back when he was tiny and knee-height, and Arthur knows it means Alfred’s in the mood to pick fights. In fact, he wore it most often as a youngster every time Arthur had to leave, clinging to Arthur like a limpet only to disappear and show up in the most frustratingly endearing way right before Arthur set sail. He had packed himself into Arthur’s trunk one time, and locked Arthur’s quartermaster in the barn—

“—oh.”

He must look ridiculous, Arthur knows, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, and he ducks his head, raising one hand to hide the incredulous smile that’s twitching at his lips.

“Arthur?”

Arthur glances up. “You idiot,” he says, to which Alfred automatically retorts, “Old man,” and then, somewhat suspiciously, “What the heck, Arthur.”

Arthur catches Alfred’s hand to kiss lightly at his knuckles. Alfred goes still, like Arthur expected, and then slings his free arm around Arthur’s waist to pull him close, which Arthur knew he would. “Anything to keep me from leaving except the most obvious method.”

Alfred stays quiet from sheer stubbornness, then gives in. “What?”

“Ask me to stay.” And Arthur has to laugh at the both of them, that for all their history together they are still terrible at navigating a proper conversation. “I’ve already told you what I want. You’re guaranteed the best scenario response, you know.”

Alfred blinks at him – and there it is, that beautiful, wide grin of his, so full of life. He takes a deep breath. “Your prime minister doesn’t need you back until Monday—” he fidgets a little bit, then presses his forehead against Arthur’s, their noses brushing together. “I always want you around. Stay.”

Arthur does.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm slotting this in the [Between the Lines](http://archiveofourown.org/series/46872) universe since I wrote this with some reference to the characterization from that verse. Timeline wise, I see this falling between _Between the Lines_ and _Bridging the Distance_. Arthur and Alfred are clearly smitten with each other but are still in the awkward-ish, misunderstanding-prone stage of their relationship where they're trying not to push too much. They're much more comfortable being frank with each other in _Bridging the Distance._


End file.
